


Please & Thank You

by DesdemonaKaylose



Category: Johnny the Homicidal Maniac
Genre: Dom Edgar, Dom/sub, Kink Meme, Light Masochism, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Spanking, Sub Nny, guess who gets that, obviously this is not the canon universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-16 00:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13624347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesdemonaKaylose/pseuds/DesdemonaKaylose
Summary: Play nice





	1. You Needed Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of an answer to two different prompts off the meme. Anyway it's 2018 I think we can all embrace the fact that we wanna see these characters fuck and not get too hung up on it, let's roll

It goes like this.

The first time Edgar Vargas met Johnny, it was in the street outside of his apartment as he turned away suddenly from the parking meter and found himself face to face with a strange man whose baseball bat was suspended over his head like a cartoon mallet. Looking sheepish and guilty as he tried and failed to hide it behind his back, Johnny had struck Edgar as both intriguing and very bad news. It was for this reason, he supposed, that Edgar had invited the man to get coffee with him at the shop down the road. They had a very nice time, the two of them and the bat which got its own seat at the table. Of course Johnny had rushed off in a panic talking about paint or something after an hour or two of that, but it seemed like he got things sorted out eventually. Although they didn't see each other for a while after that. Edgar has no idea what he was up to in the interim.

Edgar is given to understand that Johnny, more or less, murders people for a living. Edgar has never considered this to be any of his business. Look, if he was going to worry about petty stuff like that he'd be up to his elbows in stress every day just living in this world and wearing mass produced clothes and drinking coffee. He's not about to ruin a perfectly good thing for no reason. He enjoys the company. And, occasionally, more.  

It's 4:15 PM on a Saturday, when Johnny shows up out of nowhere, as he always does. He's rather like a stray animal, arriving and departing at his own leisure, and if you wanted to be charitable you could call him a cat. Some days Edgar has _alternative_ animal comparisons. Either way, locks have a tendency to come mysteriously unlocked when Johnny touches them, and at this point Edgar has given up wondering how he does it. Maybe doors just know better than to get in the way. It's been several months since that first failed abduction, and not once has the lock (which he locks religiously, each morning) ever shown signs of distress.

Edgar looks up from the couch in his own apartment, from the book he was skimming, and finds Johnny in his doorway bleeding profusely. Edgar sets his book down. The wound looks worse than it is, maybe. Whatever Johnny got cut up with, it tore his skin like a shredder.

“What in the world did you get into?” he asks. He knows he has some band-aids in his medicine cabinet, maybe a couple in a row will hold it closed? It crosses the side of Johnny’s chest just below his collarbone, into the sharp bob of his shoulder.

Johnny shrugs. He doesn’t look particularly upset about his state of affairs, although the fact that he came here instead of going home probably means _something_. He’s wearing the fingerless gloves instead of the full ones, which is always a good sign. “Ferocious little bastard on a tricycle,” he says.

Edgar decides he doesn’t actually want to know. He’ll just get mad about it, most likely. Johnny doesn’t know how to take care of himself at all. “Sit down,” he says, pointing sharply at the couch. “You’re going to get blood on something.”

Johnny gives him a look, up and down, thoughtful. After a second, he sets down the knickknack he was fiddling with and perches on the couch, and he starts fiddling with the ragged edges of his wound instead. It seems like he’s trying to make it _wider_. Without thinking, Edgar grabs his hand and jerks it still.

They both look down. When a few breaths pass and Edgar still hasn’t been eviscerated, he carefully releases his grip. Belatedly, Edgar realizes this was a terrible idea, but something tells him it’ll only be worse to back off now. So he doesn’t. Edgar has what some people might call a Take Charge Personality.  So far he's survived this odd budding friendship by knowing when to duck and when to plow on headfirst, like nothing is wrong, and he's found that if you plow on far enough in a calm voice with a reassuring smile before Johnny has a chance to react, you can get away with most things. Edgar crosses his arms.

“Take off your shirt,” Edgar says.

Johnny’s eyes widen.

Edgar considers this for a moment. They’ve been… intimate, once or twice in the last couple months. Lying on the couch together, Edgar's lips pressed against his head. Trailing fingers, stroking without release. Nothing really sordid. Mostly Johnny doesn’t want anyone to touch him, but sometimes—he says—something solid and real to ground himself against does him good. He kind of has to be talked into it though. Or, not talked into it, but reassured? Guided.

The way Johnny is looking up at him now, he thinks this is one of those times that Johnny needs direction. He decides to test a theory that's been in the back of his head for a while.

He gently closes his hands around either side of Johnny’s face, into the sharp curve of his cheekbones. Every ounce of resistance falls away under his touch. “Be good,” Edgar says. “You want to be good, don’t you?”

The bob of Johnny’s throat moves as he swallows. He nods.

“Take your shirt off for me,” Edgar says. He takes his hands back.

Johnny curls his fingers under the hem of his shirt, his lip caught between his teeth. He pulls it up, over his head, and wiggles free. When it’s laying on the floor in a heap, every little flutter of Johnny’s breathing is obvious underneath his skin.

Edgar tucks a skewed lock of hair back into place. “That’s very good,” he says, fingertips brushing the skin above Johnny’s ear so gently. Johnny tilts his head into it, all big eyes and tense muscles, his gaze darting quickly over Edgar’s face. When he lifts his chin, it’s almost an invitation. No, it’s not an invitation, it’s a submission.

The world pulses around Edgar. He should have seen this coming. His stomach flashes hot and tight at the idea of what he could do here, the idea of vicious, furious Johnny laid out under his hands. First things first, though.

“Keep your hands flat on the couch for the duration, please,” he says.

Slowly, Johnny flattens his palms against the leather.

With alcohol and a rag, Edgar clears away the worst of the blood and then pins the wound together with as many butterfly bandages as he can scrounge up. Nerves that Johnny barely seemed to notice when he arrived are now responding like harp strings, each touch against his skin producing a different harmony of twitches and sighs. When Edgar is done with the rag and the box of bandaids, he doesn’t get up from his seat on the coffee table right away. He runs his hands up and down the ridges of Johnny’s ribs, over the divot of his shoulder joint. Johnny presses into his touch.

Uhuh. Well that’s that then. It’s going to be one of _those_ days.

Edgar grabs his things and stands up. As he pulls away, Johnny’s hand comes up automatically, reaching either for him or for his things, and then it stops short with fingers open in mid air. Johnny’s realized his mistake too late.

Edgar shifts all his things to one hand and with his other, he takes hold of Johnny and presses his palm back down to the leather. “I didn’t tell you that you could move,” he says, “did I?”

“…No.”

Edgar steps away. “I’m going to put these up. Don’t move while I’m gone.”

When Edgar is safely hidden away in the bathroom, he has to grab the counter and take several deep breaths to calm the hot tight panic in his stomach. Holy shit he could have died for pulling a stunt like that. And yet—his dick gives an uncomfortable throb—all Johnny’s bare skin and wide eyes and twitching body, god, he doesn’t know how a man could look down at that and not want to _take_ it. If he’s going to play this game, he decides, he’ll have to play it out all the way to the end.

The living room is precisely as he left it. Johnny’s nails curl into the leather, but he doesn’t seem to have moved. Edgar comes to stand in front of him and cups his face again, petting at the delicate rim of his ears. “I think we can both agree you broke a rule,” Edgar says. “You can move again, by the way. There should be consequences for broken rules, don’t you think, Nny?”

“When you say consequences…” Johnny starts.

Edgar can’t help himself; the thing in his hands is too tempting, too breakable. He takes Johnny’s wrists and, slowly but relentlessly, pushes him back into the couch. Edgar climbs up to kneel between Johnny’s legs and pins his wrists to the armrest. He looks down.

“What,” Edgar says, “should I do to you?”

“Oh,” Johnny breathes.

The little small motions of his neck draw Edgar’s eye—the adams apple bobbing, the almost visible pulse jumping—and he leans in close, talking into the crook of Johnny’s neck. “I could choke you,” he says. “Bruise you?”

Johnny’s wrists flex involuntarily in Edgar’s grip. “I suppose,” Johnny says, his voice creaking in his throat. “You could.”

“Say please,” Edgar tells him, softly.

Johnny shivers underneath him. It takes him a moment to get the words out, muscles in his jaw clenching and jumping, as he looks determinedly at the far wall.

“Please,” he manages.

Edgar moves one hand to Johnny’s throat, fingertips closing sharply over the fragile skin, nails digging in. Johnny holds the wrist he leaves behind obediently in place. When Edgar closes his fist around the column of throat, he isn’t trying to block airflow as much as he is trying to make every fingertip a weapon. Bruising, squeezing, he crushes the insect-wing skin in his fist. Johnny comes up off the leather, his wrist jumps and then slams back down. Johnny’s pulse moves like a sob under his skin.

“Say thank you,” Edgar tells him.

Johnny’s tongue works over his teeth, but no sound comes out. Satisfied, Edgar loosens his grip.

“Say thank you,” Edgar says again.

Johnny coughs slightly. “Thank… you.”

He is laid out underneath Edgar, exposed, all heaving chest and flimsy skin, and he could kill Edgar in a second with any of the myriad household items within easy reach, but he is baring his throat instead. Edgar goes hot from head to toe, and achingly hard.

“Would you like another?” he says.

Johnny licks his lips. The line of fabric between his thighs betrays something it shouldn’t. “Please,” he says.

Edgar bears down, his whole weight crushing into those five points.

They go again and again and again, until Johnny's eyes are almost rolling back and his breath is as ragged as if he were breathing smoke. Edgar is determined to be a gentleman about it, but _god_ he is hard, the air of the whole room seems unbearably thick with how much he wants this. He brushes that wild strand of hair back from Johnny's forehead and, as Johnny’s mouth splits open in a reedy gasp, Edgar presses the whisper of a kiss to it.

If he plays his cards right, there could be something good here.

* * *

 

The afternoon comes in bright lines through the slats of the blinds, and this is by far the most ambitious thing Edgar has ever tried. It took a lot of talking with Johnny, over quite a few days, although practically all he’d had to say to Jimmy is _would you like to-_

Well, he'd known Jimmy would be up for it. That's why he asked.

There are kinds of fish that swim in the shadows of sharks, coasting along under the safety of a knife-edge fin. If a remora fish ever decided it wanted to become a shark, it would probably come out something like Jimmy. The first time Jimmy showed up in Edgar's apartment hellbent on murder, Edgar promptly maced him and then spent an hour washing the mace off in in the apartment's bathtub because he kind of felt bad about it. Jimmy was so giving under his fingers, soapy and miserable and chasing after every little touch despite his fervent bloodthirsty promises. Anyway. After the second break-in Edgar just started putting on coffee when he saw the knob was out of the door again.

This has been on his mind for quite a while now, maybe even since he was sitting on the edge of the tub, running his fingers through soap-slick hair, listening to the needy whine that started over again each time he drew away. At least since the first time Jimmy and Johnny both broke into his apartment at the same time for _very_ different reasons and just about tore the place down in the course of that argument. Jimmy's dogged enthusiasm--the way Johnny bristles around him--ah, well, Edgar can't help but want to push things a little more.

Jimmy is practically vibrating in his seat, shirt off since the moment he walked into the house. Edgar ignores him. Johnny is watching over Edgar’s shoulder, narrow eyes and hackles up, as Edgar finishes smoothing his hair back down from where pulling his clothes off ruffled it. As Edgar pulls back, his fingers trail over Johnny’s face.

Edgar is about one step away from being the only one in the room wearing clothes, which is precisely how he planned things to go.

“Johnny,” Edgar says, “mouth open, please.”

Johnny parts his lips obligingly. Edgar turns to Jimmy and crooks his fingers, and Jimmy nearly launches himself out of his seat.

“I want you to play nice,” Edgar says to both of them, but especially to Johnny. “Can you play nice for me?”

“Yeah,” Jimmy says, immediately, although it takes another long moment for Johnny to nod his head. Jimmy stands there, leering down at Johnny whose tongue is poking irritably at the inside of his cheek.

“Jimmy,” Edgar says, “why don’t you offer the olive branch?”

“You got it,” Jimmy says, and he swoops in for a kiss, grabbing Johnny’s face like he’s trying to pull them as tight together as they can go. Johnny holds himself open for it, obliging, taking each suck and stroke. That lasts right up until Jimmy tries something too fresh—Johnny's frame snaps tight, a kind of choking noise in his throat—and then it all blows apart. Jimmy reels back, hand to his bleeding mouth, eyes wide.

Johnny licks blood off his lip and then spits it into the carpet, smug. Edgar sighs.

“Do you want to use the safe word?” Edgar murmurs, leaning in.

“No,” Johnny says, almost before Edgar has finished asking. He glares murder at Jimmy.

No, he didn’t _think_ that was the problem. Edgar straightens back up and takes Johnny by the ear, gently but firmly. “That was definitely not playing nice,” he observes.

Jimmy is hovering off to the side, absently prodding at his cut lip and completely, unrepentantly hard in his open jeans. Well, it could have gone worse, for a first try. It appears Johnny just needs to learn how to play well with others.

“I think you had better make it up to Jimmy,” Edgar says. He turns to Jimmy and snaps his fingers, bringing the younger man back to reality. “Jimmy, pants off.”

Clearly, he doesn’t have to tell Jimmy twice. Edgar turns back to Johnny and kisses his forehead, pulling him up off the sofa. They’re going to have to move to the floor for this part.

“Now,” Edgar says, “whatever Jimmy wants, you’re going to give it to him.”

“You’re kidding,” Johnny growls.

Edgar tightens his grip on the delicate shell of ear, making Johnny wince. “Be sweet,” Edgar says. “Can you be sweet for me?”

Johnny’s fingers twitch at his side, and then he bows his head, leaning into Edgar’s grip.

“I can,” he says.

Edgar lets him go. “That’s what I thought,” he says. He tries not to sound relieved. This next part he really wants to see.

“Now,” he says, “would you get on your knees, please?”

For a moment it's just Johnny's arms locked at his sides and his bowed head, quiet and tense as a loaded gun, and then he sinks to his knees on the carpet. He sits with his legs folded under him, hands flat against the floor like Edgar didn't even have to ask him to do. Edgar runs a hand down the arc of his spine and says, "That's perfect, Nny."

One hand absently cupping the back of Johnny's head, Edgar looks over to Jimmy, who is perched in the nearest chair working his slick hand over his cock. He has his bottom lip caught tight in his teeth again, hard enough that the already pale skin is white with the pressure. When he notices Edgar watching him, he jerks his grip free and looks away, folding his hands over his lap. "Uh," he says, "sorry?"

Edgar gets to his feet. He's never dommed for Jimmy before, but he's got a pretty good feel for what the kid responds to. He plants a knee in the chair between Jimmy's legs and wedges them apart, bearing down close enough that Jimmy winces when the slow pressure threatens to squeeze something precious. Gently, Edgar takes both his wrists and pins them down, palms up, to the armrests. "I didn't tell you otherwise yet," Edgar says, "so I won't hold it against you. But if you touch that again without my explicit permission, you will regret it."

Jimmy's voice cracks as he says, "O...kay?"

Edgar gives him an encouraging smile. "If there's anything you want, just ask Johnny for it."

Jimmy looks past him immediately, licking his swelling lip. "What if Nny wants something?" he asks.

From behind Edgar, Johnny makes a little scoffing noise. "Johnny likes to think he doesn't have wants," Edgar says. He pulls his hands away from Jimmy's wrists, trailing his fingertips over the delicate cup of palm as he goes. Jimmy's eyes almost fall closed at the touch.

So needy. Edgar makes his way back to the couch and takes a seat, just barely out of arms length of Johnny. He crosses his legs. Johnny is breathing deep and even now, head still bowed, and it never ceases to fascinate Edgar that these moments are the most peaceful he ever sees the madman. It's something about having purpose, perhaps, or just something about having the responsibility for his desires taken away from him. If he wants nothing, here, Edgar will give him _everything._

"Jimmy," Edgar says, motioning at the spot on the floor in front of Johnny. "Why don't you come down."

Jimmy slides right out of the chair onto the floor, too eager to bother walking the three or four steps. He skids to a stop in front of Johnny, unfolded and refolded like a butterfly knife. He's struggling not to touch himself, fingers twitching against the floor, wrist jerking every couple of seconds as he has to remind himself. Edgar honestly hopes he _will_ break. He has contingency plans.

"Johnny?" Edgar says.

He can just see Johnny's jaw working silently, and then finally, Johnny says, "What do you want."

Edgar makes an unimpressed noise. "Come on now," he says, "nicer."

It takes a second. A deep breath. "What would you like me to do?" he says, at last. He looks up at Jimmy.

Jimmy's cock jumps visibly in his lap, and Edgar can almost imagine he hears the uptick in heartbeat. Jimmy looks up at Edgar. "Can I--um, kiss him again?"

Edgar shrugs. "Ask him."

Jimmy turns back to Johnny, teeth digging into lip. "I wanna kiss you," he says.

It's as smooth as a well oiled machine as Johnny draws up and sits back on his heels, sieza style, and parts his lips. Jimmy lunges forward, a hand gripping Johnny's hip and another tight around the back of his neck, pulling him in close. He kisses like something out of a tv show, surging up and drawing back, urgent and messy and frantic. The little wet noises that come each time he almost breaks away, the panting that nearly dips down into a moan as he climbs closer, nearly pulling himself up into Johnny's lap--everything about him is a raw, needy mess. Edgar flicks open his jeans as he watches.

Jimmy is bigger than Johnny is, and pushed up against his lap and bearing down on him, Jimmy seems even bigger. When Jimmy grabs his chin and holds him still so that he can force his tongue deep into Johnny's mouth--oh, that's probably what he was trying to do earlier--the upward arch of Johnny's throat and chin makes him look almost like he is receiving communion, or being forced to swallow it down.

Jimmy pops off at last, panting, but Johnny holds still with his neck arched, throat exposed. His eyes start to flutter closed.

"Johnny," Edgar says softly, "are you still with us?"

"Mhm," Johnny says.

Edgar turns his attention back to Jimmy. "Touch him," he says. "Whatever you like, but go slow."

No surprise that the first thing Jimmy does is dive for the cock, closing his pale fist around the delicate dark fullness. Johnny jolts, gasping, eyes flashing wide open again. Jimmy latches onto his throat, teeth and tongue and the almost sweet brush of lips, working relentlessly at it while his hand drifts over and under Johnny's cock. He's just trying to map every curve and dip, to get his fill of the thing he's been all but forbidden from thinking about until now. His touch is hungry, invasive. Slowly, like the inevitable attraction of gravity, one of his hands skates over their mirrored thighs and up--dragging over a spray of freckles, bit by bit--to curl over the head of his own cock.   

On the couch, Edgar leans his cheek into his hand and smiles.

"Jimmy," he says. "Where is your hand?"

Jimmy pauses against Johnny's neck, mouth open over the bruising skin, and looks up. In his lap, the pad of his thumb glitters with a smeared bead of precum. Something halfway between guilt and fear passes over his face.

Edgar crooks a finger at him. After a beat, Jimmy disengages from his victim and crawls over to the couch. It's lovely to watch, all nervous and compliant. Edgar uncrosses his legs and leans forward.

"What did I tell you not to do?" he says.

Jimmy looks away, eyes flickering. "Not to, um, touch my dick."

"And what did you just do?"

Jimmy gives him a nervous little laugh. "That's not really--I mean, does that _really_ matter?"

Edgar pushes his hand through Jimmy's hair, first soothing and then all at once not. He gets a fist full of locks and closes it tight. "Are you saying that my instructions don't matter?"

Jimmy lets out a little whine, one eye squinting closed. Edgar says, "Johnny, I'd like you to hold that position for a moment please. I'll be right back with you."

If Johnny makes a mean little noise of delight at all this, Edgar generously chooses to ignore it. Instead, he settles back into the couch and pats his knee. "Hips over this side, please," he says. "I'm right handed."

Jimmy's jaw falls open. "You're not serious," he says. "That ain't--that ain't fair, man."

Edgar leans in close and very quietly asks him if he'd like to stop here. They talked about this, or at least, Edgar talked at him about this--no hard feelings, honestly, sometimes you just have to know when to cash out. But the look on Jimmy's face isn't the look of someone who wants to be cashed out. It's the look of someone who is working up the nerve to go all in.

"No," Jimmy says, "No, I can--I can be good?"

The thrill that goes through Edgar is warm and dirty and proud and all sorts of strange combinations of things. He smiles.

Coltish and uncertain, Jimmy climbs up onto the couch and--gingerly--lays himself over Edgar's thighs, cock pinned between Edgar and his own body. He folds his arms under his chin and props his head up, not quite willing to surrender himself all the way. That's fine, Edgar doesn't mind letting him keep a little of his pride. The contrast makes it even sweeter, he thinks, being allowed to hold just so much of a boy's fragile ego.

Edgar runs his hand over the barely there curve of Jimmy's ass, more bone than flesh. There's so little protection here. He slips lower, between the parted thighs, and runs his thumb down the silky underside of Jimmy's cock. Ankles rolling, toes curling, Jimmy shivers.   

"Now some people," Edgar says, running his hand back up again, over the curve of cheek, "some people like to have you count. I can see the appeal, but for you, Jimmy, I don't think we're going to do that. We're just going to go until I think you've had enough."

"Hold on," Jimmy says, twisting his head, "what the fuck is that supposed to--"

The pale flesh _cracks_ under Edgar's palm, and Jimmy's body _jumps_ , hands clawing at the armrest, hips surging and catching against Edgar's thigh. He yelps. Edgar traces the vaguely hand-shaped red blush left behind as Jimmy slumps, one forearm falling across his face. "Shh," Edgar says, flattening his left palm over Jimmy's shoulder blades, ready to force them back down at the next jump, "I've got you."

Even with Edgar pressing him firmly down, Jimmy's body keeps jumping under each strike, legs kicking against the far armrest. He gives up on trying to keep his head up and buries his face in his arms, breathing hard. His hips are grinding down into Edgar with each surge, each time his body tries to get away, and Edgar can feel the exact moment that it stops being an unconscious reflex and starts being a desperate need to satisfy. Edgar pauses between strikes and watches the frantic roll of his hips, pushing his ass up a little each time, tempting and red red red. Precum leaves a pearly trace against the leather as Jimmy's cock drags back and forth in tiny little strokes. In the back of his head, Edgar makes a note to deal with that before it gets too late.

"You know I can see what you're doing," Edgar remarks, squeezing the stinging curve of skin. Jimmy whines under him, but at no point does he stop his needy little thrusts. "No, this is good, actually. You can always get what you need from me, Jimmy."

Edgar draws back and strikes down hard, into the soft place where cheek dips down into thigh, and Jimmy makes a wrung out _guh_ noise in his throat. As he pants and thrusts himself over Edgar, Edgar swipes up the smear of precum across the leather. Getting a bit too close, he decides.

"I think that's enough," he says, sucking his fingers clean with a quick little pop. "Johnny, how are you doing over there?"

Johnny, with his hands resting over his knees, gives Edgar a meaningful look which conveys, more or less, sadistic satisfaction and smugness.

"I appreciate your patience," Edgar says, and then turns back to the panting, flushed creature in his lap. "Now," he starts, "what do we say?"

Jimmy makes a muffled sound which resembles a _fuck you_ spoken into a leather cushion. Edgar digs his short nails in, making the flushed skin go white under his grip.

Jimmy kicks the armrest and then, prying his face out of his arms, manages to say, "Th, thank you."

Edgar lets go. "You're welcome," he says, sweetly, and then with some levering and pulling, helps Jimmy climb off. It's a bit tricky, there's quite a lot of him to fold up and unfold. Jimmy is wobbly as he tries to get his balance, grabbing onto Edgar's shoulder. Edgar lays his own hand over Jimmy's.

"You did so good," Edgar says, rubbing soothing lines over Jimmy's knuckles. "So good for me. You deserve something nice."

Jimmy gives him a look that is almost heartbreakingly proud of himself. "Yeah?" he says.

"Absolutely," Edgar says, and presses a kiss into his stomach. Jimmy's cock is pathetically hard, needy and jutting out very much within Edgar's reach, but Edgar ignores it. "Johnny," he says, "hands and knees please."

Hands and knees is Edgar's favorite position to put Johnny in. When they're playing alone, sometimes Edgar will leave him like that for several minutes at a time, just to study the harsh angles and bare edges of his body as he tries to hold himself perfectly still. Edgar spends a lot of time sitting on the floor in front of Johnny, running his hands over whatever captures his interest from moment to moment. Even on days when nothing goes any further, it's lovely to watch how Johnny self-consciously arches into him. The first time he talked Johnny into taking off his clothes, it took hours of gentle touches and reassurance to convince him that Edgar wanted to see it, that Edgar found it beautiful. He still remembers the way that afternoon felt against his skin, the bumps of Johnny's spine ticking past under his fingers, the shape of Johnny's forehead tucked tight into his shoulder.

That's a memory he keeps tucked in his back pocket, for bad days. That surrender, that softness.

Edgar tugs Jimmy down towards the floor, and when he's seated himself down there, Edgar leans in and says, against the shell of his ear, "Tell him how good he looks."

Jimmy closes his hand over his forearm, tucking in against himself. All at once his jittery energy is back, teeth working nervously, gaze jumping from target to target. "You look really--nice like that," he says, only able to look directly at Johnny for a moment. "Unbelievable, actually."

"Do you want to touch him?" Edgar asks, lips brushing Jimmy's ear.

"Yeah," Jimmy says. He's starting to vibrate again, barely holding himself still.

Edgar scratches his nails over the back of his neck, over the bump of vertebrae. "Do you want to fuck him?"

Jimmy nearly comes out of his skin. "Holy _shit_ yes," he chokes out. _"Please."_

"Well, since you ask so nicely," Edgar says. He slips off the couch and gathers up the condom and the forgotten lube by the armchair. He and Johnny have done this quite a few times before, although more often with toys, and he is well aware of Johnny's preferences. Edgar settles to his knees beside Jimmy and guides him through the process of prep, petting Johnny's shivering back as Jimmy works him open finger by finger. Johnny's body fights every time, tight and hard and stubborn even as he digs his nails into the floor and whimpers, pushing himself back against the invasion. Edgar shushes and soothes him through the whole ordeal. It never gets any easier, but he suspects that Johnny prefers it that way--being broken down, taken apart.

"How does that feel," Edgar asks, when Jimmy thrusts three fingers into him.

"Hurts," Johnny says.

"Good hurt or bad hurt?" Edgar asks.

"G-" the sound chokes up in his throat, but after a breath, he manages, "Good."

Edgar retreats, falling back to where Jimmy is working as if hypnotized by the rise and fall of Johnny's back. His black pupils are swallowing his irises, all of him leaned hungrily into his task. Edgar is almost loathe to stop him, but he did imply certain promises earlier, and if they get off track here they will probably not get back on. He lays a hand on the small of Jimmy's back to get his attention.

"That should be good enough," Edgar says.

"Oh," Jimmy says, sounding a little dazed. He seems uncertain of what to do next, fingers hovering between himself and Johnny, knowing that he hasn't been given permission to touch himself.

Edgar wraps his arms around Jimmy, the collar of his shirt flattening against the back of Jimmy's neck. "That's right," he says, "good memory. Don't worry, Jimmy. I'll take care of it."

When Edgar takes Jimmy in hand, fingers wrapping loosely around his heavy, twitching cock, Jimmy curls forward over Johnny's back, gasping for air. His skin is so hot, slippery to the touch, as thick and full as you would reasonably expect someone his size to be. With a hand on the small of his back and a hand between his legs, Edgar guides Jimmy into the relentless tightness of Johnny's body. It's a hard fit. Johnny makes little hiccuping noises, gentle and distressed, as Jimmy forces himself inside. Johnny's arms shake with how hard he's trying to keep himself still. It's slow and merciless, giving no quarter, and when Jimmy finally buries himself to the hilt with a sharp little jerk, Johnny's forehead hits the floor.

Edgar waits. Johnny knows what he's supposed to say. Sure enough, after a moment, the sound of Johnny's dry cracking voice--"Thank you..."

With his cheek against Jimmy's shoulder, Edgar says, "Would you like a reach around, Nny?"

"No," Johnny says. His face is still pressed to the floor.

Edgar's fingers trace the butterfly wing edge of Jimmy's hip bone. "Would you like us to hurt you?"

"...Yes," Johnny says, "please..."

"Well you heard him," Edgar says, and pulls away from Jimmy's back. "You had better give him what he wants."

Edgar picks up and settles back into the couch, which has an excellent view of the proceedings. Without his firm guiding hand, Jimmy is holding Johnny's hips like he's trying to drive every inch of the way he can into Johnny, barely pulling out before dragging himself back in. He fucks like an animal rutting in the wilderness, artless and brutal, teeth gritted, taking everything he can get. Johnny writhes under him, nails scrabbling. From the noises they're both making, you'd think Jimmy was the one getting pounded into the floor and Johnny was the one doing it.

Edgar hooks his thumb over his cock and tugs himself to the rhythm of the vision in front of him, the knuckles of his free hand pressed against his lips. He's going to have to teach Jimmy how to fuck properly at some point, probably by hands-on demonstration, but for today it's perfect--Jimmy whining deep in his throat as he surges up with his whole body, with that look on his face like a kind of revelation, almost holy as he brings himself naked and gasping to that altar.

It's got to be overwhelming for him, being balls deep in the one person whose attention he craves more than anyone's. Edgar grins into his fist. Maybe that's why his thrusts are so brutal; each little tortured gasp from Johnny is vindication, sweet acknowledgement. Well he has to pay attention to you _now_ , Edgar thinks.

"Are you close?" Edgar asks, giving himself a particularly hard twist. His whole body sings with the pull of his wrist.

Jimmy lets out a sound that could be, generously, interpreted as an affirmative. Johnny doesn't even bother answering him, which is fine, because if he _was_ close he probably would have already asked for mercy.

"You can come inside him," Edgar says, as his shoulders give a luxurious little roll, arousal making each stretch delicious against his buzzing nerves.

Johnny makes a sharp noise.

"Don't worry," Edgar tells him, "the condom is still on. You'll be fine."

"Fff," Johnny says, "fine-"

Like he said, he knows Johnny's preferences pretty well by now. Edgar gives himself a brief squeeze, breath stuttering in his chest, but when he opens his mouth again his voice is as cool as it needs to be. "Go ahead, Jimmy," he says. "It's alright. Make him yours."

"Oh," Jimmy gasps, "oh, _fuck me_ , o, okay-"

While Jimmy comes inside him, curled over his back and rutting down with shallow desperate thrusts, Johnny arches his back and closes his eyes, burying his face in the crook of his arm. It's a gorgeous tableau, Jimmy emptying himself inside the temple of Johnny's belly, Johnny pressed to the floor with his legs spread, cock hard and untouched beneath him. Absolutely worth all the work it took to get here. Edgar drinks it all in.

"Thank you," Johnny says, breathy and raw, all the irritable stubbornness fucked right out of him. Jimmy makes a noise like he's been punched in the gut. There's a pulse of almost unbearable fondness for both of them that lights up Edgar's chest just as hard as any arousal. They're just so lovely together.

He allows a moment for Jimmy to come down, hips flush against Johnny's, panting. It doesn't take long. When Jimmy starts to stir again, eyes fluttering back open, Edgar gestures for his attention.

"We're not done _just_ yet," Edgar tells him, as Jimmy's attention falls all at once on the smooth motion of Edgar's wrist. He blinks wide eyes, like he's stunned by the sight of it. Edgar tries not to laugh. "Come over here," he says.

Johnny doesn't even need to be told. With delicate movements, he climbs up onto the couch and curls against Edgar's side while Jimmy is tying off the condom and pitching it into the trash by the window. Edgar loops an arm around Johnny's back and pulls him close, delighted by the way Johnny's knee settles just on top of his thigh. While Edgar works himself slowly into his fist, Johnny tucks his head against Edgar's shoulder and drifts.

Orgasm makes Jimmy slow and loose, but easy to direct. He settles on the floor between Edgar's legs and rests against one of them, innocently mirroring the figure of a hundred dime store damsels as he tucks his arm around Edgar's calf. Edgar guides his head to rest against that knee, a light touch. His eyes are half-lidded, kohl and sweat smearing off the edges. Someday Edgar would like to have him like that, melting-soft and laid out against the floor, too tired even to moan. Not today, but hopefully soon enough.

Edgar bites the inside of his cheek, quickening the pace of his hand.

"Do you want me to-" Jimmy starts.

"It's sweet of you to offer," Edgar says, and his voice comes out a little rougher than he wants it to, "but I have it under control."

Jimmy runs his tongue over his lips, a self-conscious affectation that has Edgar throbbing with interest. A fleck of glitter in his black eyeshadow catches the light, a fleeting flash of green. "You could," he says, "you could come on my face."  

A _hfff_ of air forces its way out of Edgar's throat, fingers involuntarily tightening around his aching cock. They did not talk about this. He wants it immediately, Jesus _Christ_ he wants it. But from the way Jimmy is looking at him, Jimmy wants it more. Carefully, Edgar loosens his grip and forces himself to slow down. He turns his head, breathing in the copper-cherry smell of Johnny's hair, and then--when he's gathered himself back up--he looks down again.

"Ask me nicely," Edgar says.

 


	2. Shut Me Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmy/Nny goes solo, get HYPE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fill for [the meme, also](https://jthm-kinkmeme.tumblr.com/post/170662377500/johnny-wakes-up-one-day-with-a-problem-he-tries). I hope you wanted dirty, because I only have two modes and the other one is guro. Nny is somewhere ace-spec, keeping with the previous fill, but I don't know precisely where.

The first thing that goes wrong with Nny’s morning is that he wakes up. He surfaces slowly, dragging himself up from something viscous and dark, something that slides off him reluctantly, leaving alien trails over his nerves. He shifts, and his body goes pleasantly tight and sensitive, as if he had sat up and done a real full stretch. That’s the second thing that goes wrong.

He goes totally still in apprehensive horror.

As he’s clutching his makeshift pillow (a pile of shirts) on the floor, trying to will his awful body into submission purely with the force of his hatred, the third thing goes wrong. In the doorframe between himself and the living room, Jimmy trots by. The miserable little weevil stops mid-step, toothbrush in his mouth, and looks down at Nny.

“You’re awake!” he says, around the toothbrush, clapping his hands together.

Nny sees red. He comes up from the floor in a lunge, nails scraping the bare floorboards. “Is that my toothbrush?” he snarls.

Jimmy crosses his eyes, looking down at it. “I hope so,” he says. “Looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, though. Doesn’t taste like you anymore.”

Nny launches himself at the little rat, knocking him back onto the floor. There’s a dagger embedded in the doorframe, but it’s just a little farther than Nny can reach while still pinning Jimmy to the floor. He grabs for it, fingers stretching, and in his effort he grinds over Jimmy’s stomach–-the air goes out of him, his hand stutters, as every sweet-hot nerve in his belly lights up with treacherous delight. He stares down at himself.

Jimmy is looking up at him with wide shining eyes, his mouth open.

“Nny, are you, uh,” he says, “are you in a _mood?”_

Nny wrenches himself off the kid, wrapping his arms around himself as he stalks away. He hates these moods. Usually he goes and sees Edgar, when they hit him, because Edgar always manages to make him feel less disgusting and out of control, but he knows for a fact that Edgar is out of town right now, because he broke into the apartment yesterday while he was out making an icecream run, and there was a note left out for him.

“I’m taking a shower,” he grits out, and kicks the bathroom door closed behind him.

He’s certainly not going to deal with it himself, like hell, he’d rather die than engage in that kind of self indulgence. He tosses a couple severed heads out of the tub and puts the water on full blast, ice cold, and just barely remembers to pull his boots off before he climbs under the spray. It’s miserable. Good.

By the time he climbs back out, dripping and shivering, he thinks he has it under control. But the moment that the chill ceases distracting him–-he is leaning against the counter, wringing water out of his shirt–-the low, tight buzz between his hips starts to wake back up. If he really was a machine, the first thing he’d have uninstalled would be the damn sex drive. He resigns himself to another dip.

At the end of it all he’s peeled off all his clothing, trying to chill himself just a little bit more, but even that isn’t cutting it. He slams off the water, furious with the whole apparatus of sexuality and his hungry lizard brain. At this point, even the cold isn’t stopping his wretched flesh from throbbing wantonly, content and plump with blood while he digs his nails into his neck and slides down the wall.

There’s a knock on the door. “Nny?” Jimmy says, “You alive in there?”

“Fuck off,” Nny growls.

“I’m gonna give your toothbrush back,” Jimmy tells him, like he didn’t hear.

Nny starts swearing at the same second that Jimmy throws the door open–-it bounces off the wall-–and Jimmy stops with one foot over the threshold. They stare at each other. Jimmy licks his lip.

“Havin’ some trouble there?” he says, looking straight between Johnny’s knees.

“Yes,” Nny says, acidly.

Jimmy tosses the toothbrush into the sink and drops down in front of Nny, takes either of his bent legs in hand and spreads them apart. Nny groans and thumps his head back against the wall, because that careless manhandling goes right through him like a zip of electricity.

Jimmy’s hands on his knees are hot, boiling hot, and every chill goosebump down Nny’s spine wants him to slide those fingers over everything, every shivering ounce of skin.

“God damn,” Jimmy says, “somebody down there is looking out for your good pal Mmy.”

The fact that Nny is not currently kicking him in the face is yet another terrible sign that the whole hungry machine revolting under him is winning the battle for satisfaction. Nny digs his fingers into the wet tile. That’s it, he can’t live like this.

“Get rid of it,” he tells Jimmy, gaze fixed on the faucet.

“Yeah?” Jimmy says, lighting up.

“Before I change my mind,” Nny says.

“Dark lord Satan, thank you for this meal I am about to receive,” Jimmy says, and claps his hands together in front of him.  

Jimmy ushers him to his feet and drags him out into the house, walking backwards apparently just to keep an eye on the flesh bobbing heavily between Nny’s thighs. Nny has no goddamn idea what either of the men in his life see in his body, but the obvious delight in Jimmy’s eyes somehow lessens the intense loathing he feels for this entire episode. He might actually be alright if Jimmy will just… keep looking at him like that.

Nny hasn’t actually had a bed in years, so Jimmy just picks a clean space on the floor and pushes him down on it. He can tell by the piles of clothes that it’s the same place he was sleeping this morning.

“Lemme get a look at you,” Jimmy says, and opens him up like a package, pinning his hands to the floor. Cold prickles on his skin.

“If you must,” Nny says, trying to ignore the way that makes him feel all the more wound up.

“Thanks!” Jimmy says, visibly hard in his jeans as he takes Nny in piece by piece. He ducks down and licks a hot wide stripe up Nny’s ribcage, bump by bump. It’s wet and dirty and it drives a strangled sound up through Nny’s mouth. When his tongue passes over the nearest nipple, Nny thrashes underneath him, pulling in his knees, trying to close back up.

“Oh no no no,” Jimmy says, and wrenches him apart again, like he did in the bathroom. Nny closes his arms around himself as his cock jumps, eager to be displayed for this boy’s consumption.

Jimmy reaches between them and takes Nny in hand, pushing foreskin back from around the delicate pink head. Nny gasps. Jimmy licks the edge of skin, pushing at it with his tongue, and sucks at the tip almost like a kiss.

“Hhhh,” Nny says, which he did not mean to say.

Jimmy pauses, mouth open and tongue flat against the shaft, before finishing his slow luxurious lick. “Hey,” he says, “you wanna throat fuck me?”

It’s a trick question, it has to be. Who would offer that?

“You can make me cry, if you want,” Jimmy says, way too fucking eager, “I’m good for it.”

It’s incomprehensible, this thing Jimmy is so excited about, but nevertheless–-the idea of being so wanted, being taken in so completely, of anyone so eagerly offering themselves as a sacrifice to Johnny’s knife–-

“Here,” Jimmy says, and maneuvers one of Nny’s hands to the back of his head. “Go crazy, I can take it.”

Slowly, Nny closes his hand in Jimmy’s hair. Jimmy opens his mouth wide, damnably inviting, and as Nny pushes him down, his eyes shutter closed in unambiguous desire. Nny feels borderline feral, out of control, as he forces the kid down–-pleasure grips him like a fist, grows in him like an alien thing, like a virus–-and hears the little choking sound. The soft hot inside of Jimmy’s throat tightens and flinches around him, rolls with a heavy swallow, again and again and again. He holds Jimmy tight against his body, refusing to let go as every little flinch and jump of the body fighting against him sends another wave of gratification through him.

It satisfies the part of him that was ready to rip Jimmy open less than an hour ago for trespassing on his sanctum, and it satisfies the part of him that wants so badly to be wanted, that revels in knowing that someone would do this for him. When the aborted heaving of Jimmy’s oxygen-starved body grows desperate, Nny drags him back off. His cock slips free as Jimmy gasps for air over wet lips, looking up at Nny with monstrous devotion.

“More?” Jimmy offers, in a small hoarse voice.

Nny tightens his fingers in Jimmy’s hair and, before he can think better of what he’s doing, pushes him back down. Jimmy moans around him–-it rattles Nny down to his core–-and chokes hard, frantically swallowing to catch up with the thing in his throat. Tears gather on his lashes, in the smearing black makeup. He clutches at Nny, pulling him closer even as his head tries to jerk back in Nny’s grip.

Nny pushes him off, all at once, as it occurs to him what he’s doing here, hurting someone just to get himself off. It’s excessive and unnecessary, it’s masturbatory and it’s only making the problem worse.

“That’s enough,” he says sharply.

“O-okay,” Jimmy says, clearly yearning but not willing to admit it.

“I’m trying to get rid of this,” Nny says, flicking two fingers at himself with distaste, “not indulge your sick whims.”

Jimmy wipes saliva from his mouth with the back of his hand. “What do you want me to do?” he says.

Nny narrows his eyes at him. “You’re so eager to prove yourself to me,” he says. He pushes a wet lock of hair off his forehead. “Prove something.”

Jimmy bites his lip. He looks up, past Nny, and then back down. “I’m not just gonna give you a handjob,” he says, “fuck that.”

He gets up, leaving Nny naked and alone on the floor of what is probably his bedroom, given that he sleeps here on occasion. He hates that he’s disappointed by this turn of events. He hates that he wants Jimmy to turn around right the fuck now and come back to him. He’ll just sit here and stew in his misery, he guesses. That’s what he should have started off doing this morning, just being hard and miserable on the floor until he finally slipped into catatonic madness.

There’s a little plastic sound. Nny rolls his head just enough to make out Jimmy coming back to him, boots creaking across the floor. In his hand, there’s a discreet tube of something that glints on the tip of one finger.

“This is the shit Edgar buys,” Jimmy says. “Have you had Edgar over? Has he fucked you over here?”

Honestly Nny can’t remember, his memory is spotty as hell when it comes to this house. He feels like he ought to remember something like that, though.

Jimmy spends a second undoing his boots, tossing them into the corner, and then shucks off his pants. They hit the ground with a clink, the buckle heavy against the wood. “I’m gonna do you one better,” he says, and crawls over Nny’s waiting body until he is sitting, legs spread, above Nny’s pelvis. The long hem of his shirt hides the jut of his cock from view.

He reaches behind himself and closes a slick fist around Nny, and his touch almost glows, it soothes something hard to describe. Nny moans and presses his cheek to the floor.

Jimmy lines himself up and slowly spreads himself into a split, knees sliding over the floor, as he takes Johnny into himself. It’s just as hot as his mouth was, but brutally tighter, rough and relentless. Nny tucks his fist in between his teeth and muffles a high keening sound, biting down as it doesn’t _stop,_ as it almost overwhelms him with how very much it is.

“Yes!” Jimmy pants, “yes yes yes, there we– go–”

He comes to a stop heavy and burning against Nny’s hips, a dark spot growing in the white fabric over his cock. The weight of him is as reassuring as the tightness of him is devastating. Nny grabs his thighs before he can think better of it, holding him fast.

“I’m here,” Jimmy says, looking down, “I’ve got you. Let me take care of you.”

Reluctantly, Nny relaxes his grip. Jimmy rearranges himself as he needs to, holding himself up with his hands on either side of Nny’s face. He pulls himself forward and lowers himself back down, unabashedly noisy, moaning at every little shift. He literally never shuts up, Nny thinks in a daze, why am I surprised?

“Nnn,” Jimmy says, giving it to himself hard. “Ah-”

It feels good–-after a couple thrusts, Jimmy starts to loosen up around him, and then it’s a sweet dark glide as Jimmy impales himself with full abandon. Nny can’t remember if he’s ever done this before. It doesn’t feel familiar; if he has, it couldn’t have been with anyone like Jimmy.

“Do you,” Jimmy says, “like that?”

Nny bites the inside of his cheek. He’s not going to answer that.

“Come on,” Jimmy whines, “tell me, come on, do you like me? Do you like the way I feel?”

He grinds down onto Nny, as deep as he can take it, and Nny chokes on the breath he was taking. “Yes,” he snarls, arching up into the tight press as if he could get still more of it.

“You can have it,” Jimmy says, almost glittering with desire. “It’s yours. I’m all yours.”

Nny sinks his nails into freckled flesh. “Yess,” he hisses.

“Any time-” Jimmy says, “I’m at your– your service, you know that-”

Nny has never felt any particular way about bodies, with all their meaningless variations and artificially assigned values, but this? With this, there’s something about Jimmy that kicks him hard. He doesn’t want to like it, but he _does_ like it, he likes owning something, being given something–

He’s breathing hard, he’s losing his train of thought. He’s grateful not to have think about anything anymore, while it lasts.

“C’mon,” Jimmy says, working himself harder, hips rolling. The tip of his cock slides over Nny’s stomach as he bounces. “C’mon, that’s it–”

Orgasm pops in Nny’s skin like a firecracker, lighting him up from the inside. His head tips back, his eyes fall closed.

“Please,” Jimmy breathes, somewhere above him.

Nny cracks one eye open. Jimmy slides his hands to rest on Nny’s chest and pushes himself up, arching back. His hem is wet with precum, his arms are shaking.

“Please,” he says again, and this time it’s harder, rougher-–he’s barely holding himself still.

In the miracle haze of relief, in the soft glow of satisfaction, Nny reaches up and closes his fist around cloth and cock alike.

“If you need it so badly,” he says, lazily.

Jimmy lets out a hiccup of a moan and surges forward, thrusting into Nny’s waiting hand. His lip goes white and bloodless under his teeth. It’s so little, but he uses it so willingly. 

Maybe he won’t like it later, but for now, Nny is viciously pleased by the way Jimmy undoes himself, how desperately grateful he is for the gift.


End file.
